


On Chivalry's Blade

by goldenteaset



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Swashbuckler, Awkward Conversations, Ballroom Dancing, Bodyguard Romance, Clothing Porn, Conflict of Interests, Crossdressing, Dancing Lessons, Drinking, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fencing, Flirting, For 1750 things are about to get scandalous, Historical References, Is Gilgamesh Being Unobservant Or Willingly Obtuse?, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rumors, Threesome - F/M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mild posessiveness, only time will tell, past Gilgamesh/Enkidu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25194277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: Venice, 1750.“Put simply: a young man being guarded is suspicious, a young woman less so.” Amusement dances in Gilgamesh’s voice. “And a betrothed young woman with a bodyguard is the least suspicious of all!”A rogue mercenary requires work. A prince(ss) on the run requires protection. A nobleman requires entertainment. Love wasn't even considered, and yet...
Relationships: Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Lancer/Artoria Pendragon | Saber, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Lancer/Gilgamesh | Archer, Gilgamesh | Archer/Artoria Pendragon | Saber, Gilgamesh/Arturia Pendragon/Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Gilgamesh/Saber/Lancer
Comments: 59
Kudos: 83





	1. In Which A First Meeting Occurs And A Scheme Is Hatched

**Author's Note:**

> And now for something very far from my usual output: a historical/Swashbuckler AU! Because sometimes DiarturiaGil with daring sword fights and sweeping romance _is_ enough. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Fate/Zero.

Diarmuid Ua Duibne, second in command of the Fianna mercenaries and recent victim of Lord El-Melloi’s wrath, stares up at the moonlight and snatches of merriment streaming through the high window of the wine cellar and sighs. _To think, I was_ almost _able to enjoy Carnivale._

He’s heard of the nighttime revels, the streets filled with a thousand beautiful masks, the duels that begin and end without anyone knowing if either opponent is a blood-brother or longtime foe. When he arrived in Venice by boat, his first order of business was to buy a proper black, beak-nosed mask for the occasion. It’s a celebration _meant_ for him…

…And as soon as he stepped into a nobleman’s party, a honeymooning bride threw herself from Lord El-Melloi’s arms and into his, ensuring he was imprisoned in the nobleman’s wine cellar for the party’s duration. (The ex-bride escaped, though who could say where?) Trust the British to once again ruin his evening. 

_Is_ this _what Fionn meant when he said to beware of unchaperoned women?_ Diarmuid sighs again, looking at the barrels and racks of wine bottles dejectedly. _No, he probably meant pickpockets. But I can never ask him now._

One particular vintage catches his eye (1496), and after some deliberation he plucks it from the shelf and pops the cork with a single flick of the wrist. _Well, while I’m here, I may as well have a drink…_ To not incur the owner’s wrath, he sets down two gold _ducats_ in the bottle’s place. He’s still a guest.

He could escape any time, of course. But it’s the principle of the thing: if he left now, he’d only prove he was at fault.

Fionn taught him that much.

_No, I mustn’t think about him now. What’s past is past._

The wine is quite good, if a little drier than the mead he prefers. As he strolls about taking sips, he admires the floor smoothed by centuries of feet walking across it, and vicariously enjoys the faint sounds of revelry above him.

After a while, he’s down to the bitterest dregs, so he sets the empty bottle on the floor and replaces it with a new, full one. _Oh, this is_ much _sweeter. Wonderful!_ It goes down his throat as smooth as silk. _Three ducats for this one!_

Soft sounds above his head disrupt his one-man revel.

 _Hmm. Is someone coming downstairs?_ He cocks his head and listens to the stairs outside the cellar door as they _creak_ softly with each mysterious footstep.

“Are you certain he was brought down here?” a haughty yet melodic voice asks, slightly muffled by the door.

“Of course,” comes the exasperated reply. “I followed those guards long before you decided to ‘amuse yourself’.”

“I did not _decide_ to amuse myself; I was the only one who _could_.”

“Hello out there!” Diarmuid calls. “What’s going on?”

“Sssh! We’ve come to rescue you, _so be quiet._ ” The exasperated person sounds a bit more concerned now.

“Oh. Why, thank you.” That’s all he can think of to say. _Would Fionn have…? No, he would never. Not after what happened._

“Step back from the door,” the prideful man orders—and just as Diarmuid does so, the door eases open to reveal an odd pair indeed.

The prideful man must be the one in the gold-painted mask shaped like a lion’s head, going by his equally ornate red velvet cloak and freshly blackened leather boots that conveniently end at his muscled thighs. The voluminous long-sleeved blouse and dark breeches may be cotton…but this is the sort of person who repels ordinary fabric, so they must be of fine stock indeed.

“Are you alright?” asks the short young man in a simple white, beaked mask. His boots are thigh-length as well, of course, but they look a bit… _overlarge_ on his wiry frame. No coat adorns his shoulders, and no tricorne hat sits atop his pale-blond head. But like every other man in Venice, he has a rapier dangling from his belt—this one studded with sapphires along the silver basket. 

“Yes, I’m just enjoying some wine.” Diarmuid ponders the young man’s plain dark blouse, laced up far past what etiquette demands. It practically swallows up his delicate fingers. “You must be sweltering in that. Care to join me for a drink? It will cool you off.”

“He refuses to partake without a chaperone,” the prideful man drawls, and the young man’s crimson embarrassment is visible even beneath the mask. “ _I_ , however, shall deign to accept your offer!”

“There is no need to shame him,” Diarmuid chides, and steps back to let the prideful man make his selection. “So, why did you two decide to rescue me?”

“It seemed unfair,” the young man says stoutly, resting a hand on his hip. “A clear misunderstanding that _should_ have been resolved quickly!”

“Indeed.” The prideful man selects a Tuscan red, peering at the vintage. “It was clear that woman was desperate to escape her fiancé—and I saw you walk in moments prior, utterly clueless.”

Diarmuid dimly recalls seeing a lion’s-head mask by the refreshments, mobbed with admirers. “You could see me through all that?”

“I was hunting for entertainment—a daring escape will do!” The prideful man pops the cork with ease and lifts his mask slightly to take a sip. “Mm. A passable, full-bodied sweetness.” His lips are as full as the wine he praised.

“Whatever your reasons, I should thank you! May I ask your names?” He adds before the prideful man opens his mouth “If I must earn the right to hear it, I’ll do whatever I must!”

The prideful man chuckles knowingly and takes another sip. “Continue amusing me, mongrel, and it will be a fair trade. Very well! I am Gilgamesh Lugal.”

 _…Ah. He_ would _be the 'king' with a thousand trade routes I’ve heard about all evening._ “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He bows formally at the waist. “I’m Diarmuid Ua Duibne.” _No doubt he’ll continue to call me “mongrel” instead…but that might be to my benefit._

“Are you _truly_ Diarmuid of the—ahem.” The young man tenses up, as if suppressing a squirm. “My apologies. Your twin rapiers show the truth of your words. As for myself…” His shoulders bunch with further tension. “…Call me what you will.”

“Oh? You must _loathe_ lying, to pass the errand to strangers.”

Surprisingly, the tense atmosphere around the young man fades away at Gilgamesh’s accusation. “I’m afraid I do. But…at the moment, I have no choice.” His posture straightens, and he stares at them both unflinchingly. “I can explain later.”

“Very well…” Diarmuid’s eyes scroll toward the young man’s rapier. “…Saber.”

“Saber…yes, I like that.” A small, dazzling smile like a moonlit stream. “Thank you, Sir Diarmuid.”

“An excellent choice, mongrel,” Gilgamesh concurs—and when did he finish the entire bottle? “That aside, it is past time we were on our way.”

The wine must be getting to Diarmuid’s head for him to forget about _that._ “Er, yes, that we should!”

“There should be another way out upstairs,” Saber says, and they creep out of the wine cellar and up the cacophonous stairway.

Small wonder there are no guards about: the floorboards groan and low like angry bulls even under Saber’s light feet. After each stair the three pause, their ears pricked for the heavy footsteps of guards or servants coming to investigate the noise.

 _Creak, groan._ They’ve reached the third stair.

No one says a word.

 _Creak, groan._ The sixth. Diarmuid’s heart lurches in his throat as the wood gives queasily under him.

 _Creak, groan._ The tenth and top stair. At last, there is plush Persian carpet to muffle their footsteps.

“We cannot escape as we are,” Gilgamesh says, as they sneak their way down eerily empty marble halls that seemingly lead nowhere. “If we changed our attire—”

“—We must reach the changing room first,” Diarmuid warns, glancing around every which way in search of anyone lurking behind them. “I would rather we escaped instead.”

Somehow, they make it to the back door unimpeded. Only an fancy clay vase as tall as Diarmuid stands guard. It’s too fortunate not to take advantage of the coincidence, but too suspicious to simply accept.

“Perhaps someone important arrived?” Saber mutters. The chandeliers overhead cast his ponytail in a charming golden glow.

“If so, the mongrel must bless us with their dubiously-charming presence on a later date,” Gilgamesh grumbles, as with sleight of hand far beyond Diarmuid’s comprehension he unbolts the wooden door and very, very carefully pushes it open.

The guards on the other side stare at them in disbelief, moonlight glinting off their egg-like helmets.

“Sir,” pipes up a fresh recruit as he shoves his huge helmet out of his eyes, “weren’t we supposed to throw that one out? But he’s trying to escape.”

Nobody ever listens to the new blood. The other guards rush forward, swords raised.

The quarters are tight, the only way out is through the canal past the guards, Diarmuid has no idea how skilled his rescuers are in swordsmanship, and he’s still _just_ tipsy enough that his aim is off. The odds are terrible. Even Fionn at his most daring might reconsider his options.

To wit: it’s a duel worthy of Carnivale.

Diarmuid unsheathes his rapiers in one fluid motion, heart pounding in his ears. “Saber, be careful—!”

Moments later Saber’s rapier dances through the air, piercing the guards’ defenses like an angry hornet. Blood rains down on stone.

Diarmuid flanks Saber’s back as if they’ve done this a thousand times. Parry, parry, jab. Steel thrusts through tiny openings in armor as easily as wind through trees. He gives them no quarter.

But he won’t kill them, either; these are men at their posts, nothing more.

A single shove of his shoulder sends one guard tumbling into the canal. Rather than stay and fight, the man smartly swims for the opposite bank. _To bring reinforcements? Hopefully not._

Behind him, Saber’s feet slip on the spilt blood—but he grabs Diarmuid’s thigh with iron strength and lunges upright, his thrusts never faltering. “You should follow your fellow, good sirs,” he says, his tone dripping with disdain, “and avoid a tumble yourselves!”

Diarmuid elbows another guard in the face, gifting him a black eye. “Congratulations, you just encouraged them!”

“Get the third man too, you fools,” the leader yells over the din, not following his own orders.

 _That’s right…Gilgamesh!_ Diarmuid strains to keep his eyes on his foes. _Where is_ he _hiding while we fight his battles for him?_

A cavernous groan rolls like thunder through the night.

The fighting stops as suddenly as it began. No one dares to speak.

Metal clinks in mournful rhythm. Then another groan, this one longer, more bestial. “…BLOOD…” booms a voice far deeper than any human’s. “BLOOD HAS BEEN SPILT TONIGHT…”

The young recruit falls to his knees in terror. “A ghost! Sometimes, th-they come out during Carnivale, and—”

Another guard picks up the tale. “—I heard they’re the souls of the damned, come to take anyone out too late.”

“What if it’s the Dead Hunt?”

“Don’t be foolish! Why would dead men be in the Signore’s back door?” The leader stumbles back in fright as the ethereal sounds grow louder…and closer.

“Perhaps it is,” Saber says, not sounding frightened in the slightest. “Perhaps _you_ are their prey tonight.”

The guards stumble back, some glancing longingly toward the other side of the canal.

“They skin the flesh off your bones,” the recruit adds, already backing into the water. “And feed you to their hellhounds!”

“I don’t want to die tonight,” an older guard yells, tears running down his face. “I just want to get paid!”

Understandably, everyone is in agreement: the lot of them turn tail and run for a less ghost-infested side of the palazzo.

“—Good heavens,” Gilgamesh says, ambling out to meet Saber and Diarmuid. The vase is noticeably peeking out from the doorway. “It seems those mongrels have need of better leadership!” Rich laughter rolls out of him like fine silk. "If they remained any longer, I'd have been forced to waste crockery on them."

“That was cowardly,” Saber grumbles.

Diarmuid sighs. “At least it worked.”

Nobody bothers with further remarks as Gilgamesh, Saber and Diarmuid wave down a passing gondolier and climb aboard. The seating arrangements aren’t as cramped as Diarmuid expected, but he does envy Saber’s shorter legs that won’t get tangled with Gilgamesh’s.

“To the Lugal residence,” Gilgamesh orders imperiously, and the gondola sets forth.

Cool night air with a hint of brine plays with Diarmuid’s curls. The full moon gleams like a pearl in the night sky, the gilded glow of the city's lights drowning out the stars. It feels different from Ireland, but he’ll enjoy it soon enough.

“So,” Diarmuid says once they’re safely down the canal, “that was you.”

Gilgamesh makes a laughable attempt at innocence. “Sometimes one _does_ hear strange things downstream at night, you know.”

Saber doesn’t say anything as the gondolier rows the gondola down canals still in the throes of festivities. In fact, he seems to be keeping a close eye on a particular pair of men leaving the same palazzo they just left, clad in mysterious black from head to toe. These aren’t locals—their skin and hair are too pale for that. 

And they’re watching Saber more intently than any passerby would.

“Are those the men you mean to hide from?” Diarmuid asks softly as the gondola passes under a bridge, out of sight.

“Yes,” Saber admits. “But if they hunted me as far as Venice…perhaps I should go elsewhere.”

“If you have need of a bodyguard, I’d be honored to offer my services.”

“…And bring you more trouble? I couldn’t possibly—”

They argue in hushed voices for awhile, as Gilgamesh silently watches their black-cloaked pursuers stalk them down canal after canal.

“Saber,” Diarmuid finally growls, “ _who is after you?_ ”

At first it seems like Saber won’t answer. Then he lowers his head and mutters in a voice almost too soft to hear “Vortigern, third in line to Britain’s throne.”

“Third in line…?” Diarmuid glances at the gondolier and chooses not to say anything more. “…I see. That certainly warrants a bodyguard.” _And why wouldn’t a prince have one already?_

Gilgamesh speaks up “Did you wear that attire when you fled?”

“Of course. Why?”

“It marks you.” Gilgamesh rests his chin on his intertwined fingers. “If anyone saw you leave your…lodgings…alone and garbed as such, any one of those mongrels can sniff you out in an instant.” Behind the lion’s-head mask, his dark eyes glint with mischief. “That can be remedied, however.”

“A bodyguard.” Saber looks pointedly at Diarmuid.

“Oh, more than that!”

“Then tell me,” Saber orders, sounding every inch a prince.

“Put simply: a young man being guarded is suspicious, a young woman less so.” Amusement dances in Gilgamesh’s voice. “And a _betrothed_ young woman with a bodyguard is the least suspicious of all!”

“ _What?_ ” Saber and Diarmuid whisper in shock.

“Oh, don’t be foolish. Perhaps if I bequeath to you a glimpse of what awaits you…” Gilgamesh pulls the mask from his face, revealing rumpled gold hair, wine-dark eyes, and a sly smile that sears through Diarmuid’s reason. “…Here. I am hardly repulsive, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not at all,” Diarmuid says, before he can stop himself.

Gilgamesh preens at that. “One of us requires work, another protection, and the last relief from boredom. This will solve all three!”

“…It has potential,” Saber admits. “Very well. I shall test this scheme of yours, Gilgamesh Lugal. But only for a few days!”

In the back of his head, Diarmuid wonders what exactly he’s been roped into…and how long the ruse will last.


	2. In Which Gilgamesh Observes Little and Much In Equal Measure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit quieter than the previous, but that's all for the better when it comes to establishing character dynamics! :D

“If you must lock the door yourself to ease your mind, here.” Gilgamesh tosses Saber the keys to his villa without so much as a backward glance—he knows an honorable man when he sees one. The beautiful Persian carpet sinks pleasantly beneath his feet as he ambles through the entryway he knows so well.

“That won’t be necessary,” Saber grumbles…but it _is_ somehow satisfying to hear his bride-to-be turn the ornate bronze key in its matching lock.

Diarmuid—their newly-minted bodyguard, a strange but amusing thought—stands near at hand. There will be matters of payment to discuss, of course. He seems well-off enough in his dark green waistcoat and trousers and remarkably-spotless white shirt…but Gilgamesh would be remiss not to pay him his due.

“Is something wrong, Saber?” In the lamplight, his dusky ringlets have a delicate sheen to them as he tilts his head, curious. Eyes the color of gold peer down at Saber, almost overwhelming in their gentle intensity even from where Gilgamesh stands.

“Not at all,” Saber says, as he looks toward the remarkably-high ceiling instead. The rows of aged wooden beams seem like they could hold it forever. “How old is this place, I wonder…?”

“Not old enough to collapse atop our heads,” Gilgamesh jests, leaning against the entrance’s doorframe with a self-contented smile. “Well? Come in.”

Saber does so, marveling at the beautiful watercolor paintings of Florence and other cities that decorate the white-washed walls, the varnished bookcases stuffed to bursting. That wonder is fitting, for he is entering a place well-loved. _And half a tomb._

Diarmuid gives a low whistle. “It seems your work in trade has paid off handsomely.”

 _This again…_ Gilgamesh snorts and strolls into his study, returning with a roll of thick parchment. “Those mongrels out there may proclaim me ‘the king of a thousand trade routes’, but as usual they mischaracterize my _true_ achievements.” He unrolls the parchment, revealing the delicately etched plans of a port he recently designed. “Rather than having business in trade, I create the architecture that _spurs_ trade. For a price, of course.”

Saber squints at the plan, and he clearly sees that something has been scratched out under Gilgamesh’s name. How fortunate he doesn’t pry. “I see. Then you must be a busy man.”

“Not during Carnivale, thank heavens. _Now_ ”—the parchment is rolled up in a flash—“if you are to be disguised as my betrothed, you need attire befitting your station! Come morning, I shall have a tailor discreetly call on us, and you will be fitted and dressed.”

“…Fitted?” Saber’s pale blonde brows furrow charmingly. “Three people can, perhaps, keep a secret, but a fourth…”

“Yes,” Diarmuid agrees, “we should keep this between us.”

“Exactly. Can we not take my measurements right this instant, Gilgamesh?”

A slow, thoughtful blink. “For a young lord, you are _quite_ eager to be my bride…”

Of course, Gilgamesh won’t deny the appeal of such a delicate young man practically bursting at the seams to be on his arm. Those emerald eyes that always _just_ manage to hide emotions from their surface, the mismatched attire and firm tenor…to see him act the bride to escape his pursuers will be an _unparalleled_ delight.

“…But then that’s as expected!” With a loud peal of laughter, he ushers Saber and Diarmuid into his study. “I would hardly let _any_ lord on the run pose as my betrothed, after all.”

Even Diarmuid looks small among the towering bookshelves filled with hundreds of leather-bound tomes, and the giant window behind the desk that bathes the smooth mahogany in pearly moonlight. A lamp and bottle of ink sit ready beside a fluffy white quill.

Gilgamesh side-steps a pile of silk pillows with ease. _Why were these here, again? Ah, well, perhaps my two guests will rest on them later._ “Let me see, now…yes.” He lights the lamp. “Your bodyguard can detail your measurements.”

“Is that alright, Saber?” Diarmuid asks.

“Of course.”

Sitting at his desk, Gilgamesh rummages through the drawers and retrieves a roll of measuring tape. _A good thing I had this near at hand this time, rather than under a pile of stockings._ “Catch, mongrel!”

Diarmuid snatches the tape out of the air with an impressive flick of the wrist. “Have I stopped entertaining you already?”

Gilgamesh blinks, startled. Then he cocks his head to one side and smirks. “Your point has been made!” He takes out a fresh sheet of parchment and dips his quill expectantly.

And so, the fitting begins. Diarmuid crouches down at Saber’s feet to gently wrap the tape around his ankles. From this angle, Gilgamesh has a perfect view of the broad and firmly-muscled slope of his back beneath his waistcoat. His muscles ripple in a beguiling dance to the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

Diarmuid rattles off the inches with little fanfare, even as he has to hold Saber’s leg steady with one hand to acquire the feet measurements. His palm must be warm to the touch, as Saber’s eyes widen a bit in sweet surprise.

“They’re very small,” he notes softly as Saber’s sets his foot back down. “How old are you, Saber?”

“Five-and-twenty.” He scowls at them both. “What? Not all of us are born giants!”

Gilgamesh laughs and slouches comfortably at his desk. “Oh, you needn’t fret about that—gowns will fit you quite well.” The steady scratching of his quill continues.

“Now for your legs.” Diarmuid makes a point of barely touching Saber as he circles the tape around his calves, his knees, his thighs. The latter gives Gilgamesh’s heart a strange, jealous stir, as the long curl at Diarmuid’s forehead tickles Saber’s side. It’s even more potent when he twines the tape about his backside. Can he feel the heat of Diarmuid’s body even moreso than before?

_And why should that matter?_

“Hmm,” Gilgamesh says, once Diarmuid lists off Saber’s hip measurements (76 cm), “petticoats should hide your slimness well enough. Now, your waist…”

“Three-and-fifty.” Diarmuid’s knuckles brush Saber’s waist.

“Huh! Rejoice at your girlish physique, Saber, for it will surely save your life.”

Diarmuid rises to his feet with unexpected swiftness, and with equal speed he wraps the tape about Saber’s breast and proclaims “Three-and-seventy”.

Are his ears a bit flushed? Perhaps he, too, was considering what the results of these measurements will be.

“Very good.” Gilgamesh makes a few final notes and folds the parchment into an envelope—it’s a strange method of remembering things his only friend left behind. “And now, we rest. Tomorrow I can send these out to a seamstress I know of, and she’ll send us a collection of gowns to peruse. And men’s attire, of course, should we need them!”

In a surprisingly-delicate gesture, Saber hides a yawn behind his hand. “Very well. Where will Diarmuid and I sleep?”

“There are two guest rooms opposite my study.” Gilgamesh guides them to the rooms—and is surprised again when Saber takes the smaller of the two. “How curious. Why that one, Saber?”

“I can view the canal from the sill.” It’s said practically, without a hint of joy.

_…How vexing._

Still, Gilgamesh nods his agreement. “In that case, I shall bid you both good evening…and do not wake me before noon!”

Diarmuid chuckles. “I may sleep in as well. It was a longer night than expected!”

It’s difficult not to agree, given that Gilgamesh had expected nothing more than a passable revel when he dressed to go out this evening. Perhaps his friend was right, and optimism is refreshing from time to time. _It certainly serves_ this _charming mongrel well!_

\---

Bright sunlight blasts through the sheer gold curtains, and Gilgamesh retaliates with a rude gesture of his own. _Surely, I lay down only a moment ago?_ But the sounds of gondolas floating by and people chatting merrily outside proves him wrong.

He sits up with a grumble, silk sheets pooling about his bare waist. He brushes the huge four-poster bed’s gauzy rose curtains aside and braves the January air to get his attire in order. (It’s cool enough that he needs a sheet wrapped around his waist to do so.)

Years ago, he would expect his friend to lie sprawled out next to him, blessing the bed with their warmth. Now he knows better.

Unfortunately, he still doesn’t have the sense not to stalk over to his private chest and retrieve the last letter his friend gave him. Some mongrels might call this self-flagellation—who would cherish a friend lost at the cusp of one's maturity this much? As far as Gilgamesh is concerned, such mongrels would never be worthy of the companionship he was blessed with.

 _And in the end_ , he thinks bitterly, as he smooths out creases on the years-old parchment, _neither was I._

He barely needs to read the contents anymore, but they bring him too much comfort not to reread them anyway. Even as they fade with time, their power remains.

_Dearest Gil,_

_You are a wine-brained idiot!_ (Several more exclamation points have been scratched out by an angry slash of ink.)

_By the time you wake up and find this letter, it will be afternoon and I will be bound for Florence. I want you to know that I left your side not because I hate you—rather, I left your side because I cannot sit by and allow you to place all your affections onto me. We cannot carry love’s weight solely between us._

_And so, I give you an ultimatum: when you have found other friends than I—ones you can love with as much fire in your heart as mine burns for you, even as it currently pains me—bring them to meet me in Florence. When you do, oh, what a celebration we’ll have!_

_You’re free to ignore this, of course. I know how willful you are, my darling._

_However!_

_If you ignore this letter and follow me to Florence now, I will kill you and dump you into the ocean._

_Until we meet again, I remain,_

_Your Enkidu_

Gilgamesh mouths the last lines once again, letting them fill his heart to bursting with their filaments of hope before locking them away again. The key always feels so small and fragile compared to what it protects. _But that matters little, as long as the treasure is safe._

Even though he has yet to bring himself to act on his dear friend’s ultimatum, he still hasn’t stepped foot in Florence. By now, they may have left long ago. Regardless—there are too many projects to entertain him here, too many Carnivales to witness. And now, with the mysterious Diarmuid and Saber in his home, he has yet another reason to stay.

 _Knock-knock._ “Signore Gilgamesh?” A muffled voice calls through the locked oak door. “It’s Diarmuid. May I come in?”

“Enter,” he orders, not caring that he only has a sheet on his person.

Diarmuid, however, seems to care quite a bit. His eyes widen as he takes in the muscled magnificence before him…and snaps his gaze up to Gilgamesh’s face. “This might be rude to ask, but…are your manservants out celebrating Carnivale, or ill? Because only your cook has arrived.”

“I have only part-time servants.” _These days._ “Why?”

“Well…” Diarmuid clears his throat. “…As I’m technically your bodyguard as well, it seems sensible that I at least help you dress.” He pauses, his cheeks a delightful pink. “Though now that I say it aloud, it sounds foolish. My apo—”

“—Oh, there’s no need,” Gilgamesh purrs, and practically pushes Diarmuid over to the wardrobe in the corner. “In fact, it sounds a wonderful idea! Go on, show me what you’re capable of.”

Diarmuid responds to the challenge admirably and sets to work pulling out breeches. Until he pauses. “…You, er. Must have a certain color in mind.”

“Red.” Then, to throw him a bone, “the pair on the far right.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

Gilgamesh sits on a plush chair nearby and waits for Diarmuid to come over, bearing his things. For a mercenary, he seems to at least understand how fabric works—the breeches are warm wool for the cool day, rather than lighter velvet.

He’s equally adept at easing Gilgamesh into each leg, guiding him to rise right as the pleats reach his hips and tugging them up the rest of the way. Perhaps because he’s focusing on his task, he doesn’t seem to mind how close their bodies are; enough to feel each other’s warmth. _Saber had surprising restraint last night!_ Especially since Diarmuid’s hands are as steady as any physician’s, the fingers elegantly-tapered yet thick.

Unfortunately, he pulls his hands away before Gilgamesh can appreciate them further. “Will today warrant full-dress, Signore?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Gilgamesh watches as Diarmuid carefully unfolds a linen shirt, the wrists bare of lace. “Have you served another this way?”

Diarmuid pauses, perfectly framed by the open wardrobe. His downcast eyes see something far beyond Venice. “Yes,” he finally says. “Now, please hold out your arms.”

Gilgamesh does—and it’s here that he gets a glimpse of Diarmuid’s more emotional instincts. Pulling the shirt over his head is simple enough, but when Gilgamesh finally resurfaces from the seeming ocean of fabric that surrounded him a moment ago, and slips his arms through the sleeves…he finds that he isn’t the only one charmed by another’s hands today.

“Goodness,” Diarmuid murmurs with dreamy eyes, his thumb brushing the pad of Gilgamesh’s fingers. “No callouses at all!” His touch is as light as if he were holding unwoven silk.

“Does that disappoint you?” Gilgamesh teases, tilting his head to one side.

Returning from his trance, Diarmuid snatches his hand away. “No, of course not!” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Now to close the front—”

“—You needn’t bother with that, Diarmuid. Just a jabot will do.”

“Of course.” It seems returning to the wardrobe gives him time to collect himself. As Gilgamesh expected, he doesn’t dither too long in finding a “proper” jabot; they all look the same, anyway, save for how much lace is on them. “Here you are,” he says cheerfully when he returns. “I just need to pin it to the shirt…like this.” He peers at it, then adjusts it fastidiously until it rests straight on his collar. “Like _this_.”

Gilgamesh nods his approval. “The coat can wait until after breakfast.”

“It should be waiting for you in the dining room…as is Saber.” Diarmuid sighs wearily and rubs his temples. “That— _man_ is too impatient; he already sent the measurements out before dawn!” 

“Heh. As expected.” Gilgamesh tugs on some black stockings and pads out to the hall, noting that his “breakfast” will be most mongrel’s luncheons. “Well, Saber, has the seamstress outdone herself once again?”

“She must have,” Saber replies from the guest room. “Just a moment, let me get these— _foolish_ petticoats into submission. There!”

Skirts rustle and swish. The guest room door opens.

Then.

 _Oh, no,_ Gilgamesh’s mind babbles helplessly, as a radiant vision in pale blue bustles over to him. _What have we done?_

His eyes catch on the strangest things: the skirts that bloom out like a silk flower, and the tiny white slippers peeping out beneath them. A confection of lace at the sleeves that only enhances those thin wrists. The slightest swell of bosom covered by thick, white bows down the bodice, enough to imply without fully committing and ruining the disguise. And most potently of all, Saber’s hair has gone from simple ponytail to an elegant maze of a braided bun, haloing his petal-pink face in a delicate crown of gold.

 _This was supposed to_ hide _him, not ensure everyone knows him for miles!_ Gilgamesh’s blood howls in his ears. _We may as well have hired a parade!_

“I haven’t managed a ladylike walk, just yet, but I should have it by tonight.” Saber frowns at where his scabbard would hang. “It’s dreadful, being without my sword, but…I’ll manage that, as well.” 

“Oh, it seems you didn’t need my help after all, Saber,” Diarmuid says from behind Gilgamesh, and on instinct Gilgamesh steps to one side to give him a better look. “With all those details, I was afraid you…you…”

“Is something wrong?” Saber peers forward into their eyes, his expression serious. Petite hands reach out to touch their foreheads. “You two look pale.”

“Everything is fine,” Gilgamesh replies, even as his mind continues to babble helplessly, “my lovely bride.”


	3. In Which Diarmuid Has Many Concerns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and keep with this weekly schedule as best I can. But as the chapters get more complex and the "adventure" part of this romantic adventure ramps up, don't be surprised if posting takes two weeks!
> 
> EDIT 7/31/2020: Well, what do you know, the start of the chapters getting complex is the next one, chapter 4. ^^; The plan is to have it out next weekend! Thank you for your patience.

“What do we do now?” Diarmuid hisses, as Saber continues his self-taught lessons in lady’s manners, his brows pinched with charming concentration.

“As if I would know.” Gilgamesh scowls at the dining table’s grain as if trying to divine a solution from their swirls. “If nothing else, no-one will connect the runaway lord and my bride-to-be; they’re far too dissimilar!”

Diarmuid rests his chin in his hand as Saber retrieves his rapier from the guest room and begins practicing fencing forms, the gown billowing about with each movement. “If you say so.” _Perhaps I was wrong about him. A prince wouldn't practice swordplay so keenly; a lord's son would._

Gilgamesh sighs and traces a knot of grain with a finger. “We must put this plan to the test eventually. Perhaps we should show hi— _her_ off to my neighbors first.” He turns to look at Saber. “Do you feel prepared for an outing, my dear? And what should we call you?”

Saber pauses, his sword hilt held limply in a relaxed French guard. Then he sheathes it with a practiced motion, as if making up his mind. “Genevieve Watson.” He says the false name with surprising reverence—a lost love, perhaps? “One of an English viscount’s lesser daughters; I was going to join a convent until we arranged our betrothal…somehow.”

“Oh-ho. And here I thought you loathed lying!”

“I do.” Saber sniffs. “However, I know a good story when I hear one…and this is passable.”

Gilgamesh stands with lionlike grace and sidles over to Saber. “Very well, my sweet Genevieve! I shall show you wonders beyond any the convent could teach.” He lifts Saber’s petite hand and brushes a kiss along those delicate knuckles.

Is it Diarmuid’s imagination, or is Saber…unfazed? Most men would be flushed to the roots of their hair if their hands were kissed so dashingly. But it seems Saber is made of sterner stuff. He merely gives a courteous nod and pulls his hand away, as expected of a lady.

Gilgamesh must notice this too—he crosses his arms over his chest and proclaims “Leave your sword behind and bring your fan instead—I hear ladies find it serves as well as a shield!”

“Yes, that’s true.” Saber’s lips twist in annoyance for a moment before curling into a smile. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“I know it hurts to lie,” Diarmuid says softly, giving Saber’s shoulder a comforting pat. “You can leave that to Signore Gilgamesh and myself, if need be.”

Saber sighs, his downturned lashes glittering like gold in the sunlight. “I’ll need to improve at it eventually, but…it will be best for the plan if I accept your offer.”

“Excellent.” Gilgamesh smirks and turns on his heel. “Diarmuid, my coat. We have neighbors to impress!”

\---

“Sa— _Signora_ , please stop staring so intently at the ladies.” Diarmuid watches the two ladies in question stroll by arm-in-arm along the canal, their bustles swaying like flowers in a breeze with each dainty step. They must be off to the nearby market.

“I’m learning how to walk,” Saber replies, his expression unsettlingly intense as he shuffles his feet at Diarmuid’s side. He switched out the dainty slippers for leather shoes more suitable for walking on cobblestones—which means he has to focus even more on keeping his strides in check. “In truth…it seems there is much I still don’t know.”

Gilgamesh looks up from watching gondolas floating by, one hand holding onto the large wooden beam where a rope would be tied. “Oh? Well, enlighten us, my dear.”

After a moment, Saber inclines his head toward a young couple cuddling in a gondola with only masks to keep them “discreet”. “Is that what lovers do in Venice?”

“During Carnivale, many things are acceptable that otherwise would not be. Gambling, lover’s dalliances…even duels to the death.” Gilgamesh’s gold hair flutters about in the gentle sea breeze. “If you wish, we can enjoy such pleasures tonight.”

“Why tonight?” Saber asks, tilting his head to the side curiously.

“Because for now, we have introductions to make.” Gilgamesh cranes his neck, searching, and waves at someone behind Diarmuid. “Good day, Signora Ambrosia!”

Diarmuid had no idea what to expect from “introductions”, but they are certainly more numerous than expected. _Now_ he can understand why Gilgamesh calls others’ “mongrels”—names and titles whirl by in a flutter of elegant gowns and coats. (That Carnivale is still in full swing doesn’t help.)

Somehow, not only does Saber remember all these people, he manages to hold conversations with everyone. Many chats may consist of remarking on the weather, but people seem fascinated by his remarks all the same. _Is this the result of noble teachings?_

“So, Signore Lugal, how did you meet this charming lady?” a portly gentleman all in yellow asks eagerly.

“Genevieve was about to enter a convent, but a well-timed recommendation from her aunt’s third cousin ensured our meeting here.” Gilgamesh flicks a playful gaze toward Saber. “The convent must have been quite dull, for you to travel all this way!”

“It was,” Saber says with a smile as the gentleman guffaws. “I would rather don a mask than a habit.”

He rakes his gaze over the surrounding area, searching for any of Saber’s black-clad pursuers. As busy as the streets and canals are this time of day, it’s hard to pick out silent darkness among the rainbow swirls of color and sound. Every so often he sees someone walking a bit _too_ intensely through the marketplace, heavy black coat swaying like a ship’s sail behind them…but they don’t look Saber’s way. Yet.

_They may be as far as the docks in Castello. But since I can’t be certain, I’ll keep my eyes peeled._

“And when might the wedding be?” A tiny old lady’s eyes sparkle with excitement.

“We will see what Carnivale holds,” Gilgamesh replies mysteriously.

“If you hurry, you can consummate the marriage before Lent!” a gangly nobleman jests—at least, Diarmuid _hopes_ that was a jest.

A glint of danger appears in Gilgamesh’s eyes, only to vanish in an instant. “Truly, a little over two weeks? Your time-table is far too small…but we shall see!”

The neighbors laugh jovially enough, but Diarmuid knows social graces when he sees them; there is no genuine friendship here.

Church bells peal solemnly. Diarmuid struggles not to tense up as a funeral procession floats by on several gondolas, weeping and wailing for some beloved dead. _Did that one glance at Saber? …No, they were handing a handkerchief to their fellow. I need more focus than this!_

The idle chatter falls silent as the funeral procession passes by, only to continue as if nothing happened once the last gondola rounds the bend in the canal. Just another afternoon.

“Will you come to our ball tonight, Signore?” The yellow-clad nobleman and his wife look politely pleased by the prospect.

Saber’s eyes glow with a sudden burst of excitement, and for a hair-raising second he opens his mouth to speak—before catching himself and turning expectantly to Gilgamesh. “Do we have other engagements…dear?” The endearment seems to catch in his throat.

“As it happens, no,” Gilgamesh says, casually looping an arm about his betrothed’s waist. “When will it begin? …I see. Then we shall meet you again this evening!”

That must be the cue to leave, because the nobles disperse like a flock of seagulls to amuse themselves elsewhere.

“Where to next?” Diarmuid asks, as the sea breeze gusts through the canal.

“My home.” Gilgamesh smiles down at Saber, still holding him close. “After all, now you must learn how to dance!”

Saber sighs and shakes his head, his cowlick bobbing about in the breeze like a stalk of wheat. “And I thought _walking_ would be troublesome enough…”

Diarmuid gives his best, encouraging smile. “At least we can help you with this.”

“Indeed—how well do you dance, Diarmuid?”

“Well enough, Signore, depending on what sort it is. I doubt jigs would be allowed at a nobleman’s ball!”

“I see. Do you know the minuet?”

“…Not at all. I’m sure Saber knows it far better!”

Saber’s brows pinch in worry. “Only the men’s side of things, I’m afraid.”

“That’s certainly better than nothing!” Gilgamesh whisks them both away with ease, practically glowing with excitement.

Before they head down the long alley toward Gilgamesh’s house, Diarmuid sneaks a glance over his shoulder to check once more for those men in black. At last, he spots them—in a gondola, making their way north up the Grand Canal.

“It seems your ‘friends’ expect you to ask the Doge for help, Signora,” he says grimly. “A good thing we have the marketplace here to cover our tracks.”

“Please keep watch,” Saber says, not bothering to look himself.

Diarmuid intended to anyway. Especially since one of the men has a familiar bald head and bulky back he’s guarded a thousand times before. _That couldn’t possibly have been Conan mac Maol…could it?_

The bald man’s companion puts any doubts to rest. The lithe young fellow stands long-limbed and taller than most, standing still amid the gondola’s bobbing as if he was on land. And the large two-handed sword at his side gives Diarmuid all the proof he needs.

It’s Cailte mac Ronain, the Fianna’s finest tracker.

“What is it?” Gilgamesh asks testily.

There’s no use hiding it. “Vortigern spares no expense: he’s employed the Fianna to find you, Saber.”

“And now, you’re pitted against old friends…” Saber bows his head, ashamed. “…You needn’t kill them on my account, Diarmuid.”

“Why not? I left them willingly, and I serve you willingly.” Even as he speaks, he pushes all cherished memories of his ex-brothers in arms aside as best he can. No doubt they’ll resurface later—and he’ll deal with them later.

For now, he watches the gondola bearing Cailte head down the canal and hopes talk of Gilgamesh’s sudden betrothal is spreading fast.

\---

“Are you certain we should practice here?” Diarmuid asks, as Gilgamesh leads them to the living room, situated cozily between his study and bedchambers.

“Yes. The chairs here will be more comfortable to relax in—and furthermore, we’ve more room for movement!” Gilgamesh makes an expansive gesture with his arms to emphasize the point.

There’s a lot to take in: dazzling afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows, oil paintings of pastoral scenes and ancient cities dotting the walls, a cozy brick hearth in the back of the room, the red, plush velvet chairs nestled before it, and—is that a _bear rug_ peeking out of a set of drawers in the corner? _One would think the Persian rugs here comfort enough!_ Luxury aside, there is certainly more room here to step on each other’s toes.

Saber seems more inclined to get straight to business. “So. The minuet.”

“Yes, yes—Diarmuid, roll the rug back first, we require solid ground beneath our feet.”

That’s sensible. Diarmuid carefully does as ordered, tucking the rug against the back of the chairs’ legs, half-listening to Gilgamesh explaining the basic rules of the women’s role in the dance.

“First, you must lift your skirts a bit, just to your ankles. Then, the man bows, and you curtsy, as if it’s our first meeting—just so.” Fabric rustles. “Now—no, Saber, _the man leads_ , you must await _my_ movements.”

“I’m aware,” Saber grumbles, but there’s a sound of him shifting his feet back a pace.

“Good. Now, extend your hand…yes, palm upturned…and I shall come to you, palm down.”

Diarmuid straightens up and turns in time to see Gilgamesh flow forward with a panther’s grace and glide his fingertips over Saber’s. The size difference is truly incredible: Saber’s pale hand looks so petite, almost dainty, compared to Gilgamesh’s long, elegant and sun-kissed fingers. And yet, they flatter each other.

His heart aches to see it.

“And now the vexing part,” Saber says wryly, as the two begin to circle each other like two spokes of a wheel, one leg crossing behind the other in a complicated rhythm Diarmuid can barely follow.

“You’ll manage,” Diarmuid assures him, his gaze fixed on the pairs of feet gliding across the floor.

“On that note…” Gilgamesh doesn’t take his eyes off his partner for a moment. “…Diarmuid, how thorough are the Fianna in their hunt?”

“Very. They will hunt you to your dying breath, if need be.” _I know that from experience._

“I see.” Saber parts from Gilgamesh, and they float about like they’re making “Z” shapes with their feet. Truly, this minuet is too fiddly for a mercenary's taste. “Can the Fianna spot you at a glance?”

“Cailte might…unfortunately. And since he’s here, escaping Venice in the festivities might be our best option.” _Though I doubt that will happen!_

“Perhaps.” Saber lifts his chin proudly. “But I would rather see this scheme through to the end, first! What of you, Gilgamesh?”

Gilgamesh mutters something under his breath, his expression dark and troubled.

“ _Gilgamesh_?” Saber presses, almost stepping out of rhythm before catching himself.

“What?” A flicker of realization. “Ah. Yes, I’m loath to give up on this amusing scheme so early!”

 _As expected._ Diarmuid sighs but doesn’t press the issue.

“To speak of lighter things…” Gilgamesh’s sly smile returns in blinding force. “…Your besotted act must be more convincing, Saber! As it stands, to the public we appear to be mere acquaintances, not lovers overflowing with passion for each other.”

Saber tilts his head in charming bafflement. “But we _are_ mere acquaintances. Shouldn’t love be slow to grow, like a tree?”

“You may be right,” Diarmuid says with a fond laugh, “but then that makes your disguise easier to unmask. After all, there’re only so many newly-arrived Englishman here…”

“Oh! Now I see. And so our minuet at the ball must be…p-passionate.”

“Is that a blush on your fair cheeks?” Gilgamesh teases, pressing their fingers together again as Saber grows redder still.

“Humph. There’s a simple explanation for it! I remembered a dance that will surely make _everyone_ believe we’re in love.”

“Oh?” Diarmuid leans forward, curious. “You don’t think the minuet is enough, then.”

Gilgamesh nods. “I see your point—there is a delicate formality to the minuet that holds passion at bay. Then what dance would you have replace it?”

Saber takes a deep breath before holding his head high with a confident smile. “It’s a commoner’s dance, one that none of the nobles here will have seen before until tonight—unless they snuck into the servants’ quarters during balls, that is.” His smile widens, a young man in the mood for mischief. “It’s called the _walzer_ , and it’s the most scandalous dance I know.” 


	4. In Which There Is Dancing and Disruptions

“‘The _walzer_ ’, you say…” Gilgamesh’s tongue wrestles awkwardly with the word. “Is it German?”

“Yes.” Saber smiles fondly at some past memory. “Not long ago, my brothers and I learned the steps at a village festival…but enough of that! I have lessons to teach. First, we exchange pleasantries.” He curtsies, and Gilgamesh bows shortly after. “Excellent. Now, hold out your hand.”

Gilgamesh does so, and soon a small hand is placed delicately atop his. Indeed, there is something…more _intimate_ …about this gesture, compared to the minuet.

Diarmuid must agree, if his sharp intake of breath in anything to go by.

Saber nods in approval. “And now you draw me closer to you.”

“Very well!” Gilgamesh steps forward, expecting something delicate and distant. The kind of thing a sheltered young lord would consider the height of debauchery. Surely Saber hasn’t seen _true_ luridness—

—And Saber pulls him so close his skirts brush Gilgamesh’s stockings.

“‘Draw me _closer_ ’, I said!” He clicks his tongue in annoyance, the sound loud as a hearth spark. “Next time, you must do so yourself.” 

That’s a Herculean task, since Gilgamesh has all this… _softness_ …to reckon with. Eyes like molten emeralds glittering up at him, a gentle hint of a bosom, a blond cowlick tickling his chest, and somehow Saber is managing to _speak_ in such close quarters.

“Next, I put my right hand in yours…” Petite fingers entwine with his, the tips warming his knuckles. “…and your free hand goes to my upper back. Mine has to keep my skirts raised, you see.”

“Your…no, you can’t be serious!” It’s hard to tell whether Diarmuid is trembling in shock or outrage, but either way there’s a charm to it.

“I am.” Saber guides Gilgamesh’s hand to his lightly-muscled back, just hidden by his dress—and the corset tantalizingly beneath the silk. “I can teach you as well, Diarmuid.” He smiles warmly at them both, as if this is the most normal thing in the world to him. “But I can only do so one at a time. I would ask you to be patient!”

“O-Of course,” Diarmuid says, bowing formally at the waist. (If he intends to hide his blush, his flushed red ears give him away.)

“Thank you.” Saber smiles wider as he nudges Gilgamesh into moving to one side. “Now—the man leads, and the woman follows. We move in a circle…‘like ripples flowing outward', as my teacher put it.’”

“…Hmm, so not _too_ dissimilar from the minuet after all. And who was your eloquent teacher?”

“A young woman named Irisviel,” Saber says wistfully. “Apparently she and her lady-companion Maiya had escaped a convent before my siblings and I arrived! It was only hearsay…but I could believe it.”

“So _that’s_ where the convent business came from!” Diarmuid laughs. “It seemed like something you encountered before.”

“You didn’t believe I—oh. Of course not.” Saber ducks his head, embarrassed. “In any event—we should continue practicing. There is much to learn: how to dip me without injuring yourself, and… _oh_!”

Gilgamesh adjusts his grip on Saber’s back, watching the elegant slope of his neck bend back with gravity’s weight, his cowlick almost touching the floor. “You overestimate your weight, my dear.” And eases him upright, amused by his cowlick’s frantic bobbing in the air. “You see?” _Indeed, you are…suspiciously light._ Perhaps his mind’s playing tricks?

“That,” Saber replies with amusing primness, “is _not_ what I meant by ‘lifting me’.” Face stern, he settles his hands back where they were, lifting his dress slightly and causing Gilgamesh’s concentration to falter at the hint of pure-white stockings. “Now, let’s begin again…”

“Diarmuid, are you paying close attention as well?”

“Y-Yes, of course!” It would be impossible for him _not_ to be. “And if I may…” He clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back—a posture befitting a mercenary at work. “…Might my lessons begin soon?”

“Of course,” Saber says with a reassuring smile. “I said I would teach you both, and I will!” He goes so far as to pull away from Gilgamesh and glide to Diarmuid instead. “In fact—it’s your turn now.”

“Our instructor is very kind.” Diarmuid ducks his head humbly, a pleased smile on his lips. “I’ll do my best to repay you!”

“You can begin by getting into position,” Saber drawls. He doesn’t seem to notice or care how Diarmuid’s hand trembles as it nearly overwhelms his charge’s spine with its very presence.

Of course, good intentions don’t always lend themselves to good _results_. Given the strangely slow, swaying movements of the _walzer_ are often punctuated by unexpected dips, throughout their vigorous training Gilgamesh and Diarmuid both give Saber’s feet unintentional stomps. And yet, Saber endures with near-saintly patience.

“Yes, Gilgamesh, it’s a _slight_ dip—enough to let us view the audience. You mustn’t look so disappointed.”

“Our movements are the same but reversed; please remember that!”

“No, _I’m_ the one at fault for stepping on your feet, Diarmuid.”

“Remember the meter: _one_ -two-three, _one_ -two-three…”

With each new attempt, their rhythms mesh. With each new turn across the floor, they begin to understand each other. _One_ -two-three, _one_ -two-three—even without a melody, that meter serves as their constant guide.

All the while, a giddy feeling like champagne bubbles in Gilgamesh’s breast.

\---

Gilgamesh hasn’t felt this excited for a ball in _years_ , and it’s all thanks to Saber’s scandalous little secret technique. Even stepping through the entranceway and shaking the hosts’ hands feels like time wasted when they _could_ be on the dance floor, terrifying these mongrels with their lurid mating display.

He has enough presence of mind to inform the hostess of what he and Saber have planned, of course. (It wouldn’t do to be tossed out into the canal mere moments after arriving.) And since this is Carnivale, they’re just as delighted by the coming transgression as he is.

“Oh, good heavens! A scandalous peasant dance, you say…” the lady-host titters from behind her ornate, lace-rimmed fan. “Truly, Signora Watson is a kindred spirit to you, Signore Lugal!”

“Thank you,” Saber says in charmingly breathless delight, his tiny hand curled about Gilgamesh’s muscled arm. Passersby look on him in his dark blue and white frothy confection of a dress, Gilgamesh’s matching jacket and trousers, and walk away seething with delicious envy. “I’m honored to show it to you, Signora Cavalcante!”

It seems the host didn’t expect her name to be remembered; she coos happily with Saber over trivial nonsense that only delays things further, until Saber finally ( _finally_ ) disentangles himself from the conversation and lets Gilgamesh steer him into the ballroom proper.

It seems half of Venice's nobles decided to attend this ball. Elegant dresses and delicately-curled and powdered wigs abound, along with the expected muted conversations and beautiful, hand-wrought masks glinting in the candlelight as far as the eye can see. (No-one seems to recognize Diarmuid, Gilgamesh and Saber's masks yet; that's for the best.) 

“We should inform the orchestra, as well,” Diarmuid says, only the slightest hint of tension in his voice. He insisted on wearing the same simple-but-effective attire he wore when they met, preferring ease of movement. A pity. “With luck, they’ll understand the meter.”

“If not, we shall improvise.” Saber’s confidence is radiant as the sun, and Gilgamesh is drawn toward it like a flower in a meadow.

Diarmuid clasps his hands behind his back, pensive. “I will patrol the perimeter—this _palazzo_ could have a secret entrance.” He looks at the suits of armor lining the halls with suspicion, as if he expects enemies to be lurking inside.

“And miss our grand debut, not to mention yours as well?” Gilgamesh’s attempt at a faux-pout becomes a genuine frown. He really hoped they would all have the chance to make the most of Carnivale.

Diarmuid turns fully toward him and Saber, his gaze fixed on theirs. “I will see your performance through to the end,” he murmurs, his words almost lost in the hum of the guests around them. “You have my word.”

Then he slips behind their backs and ushers them into the ballroom proper, leaving Gilgamesh with no reply.

While Gilgamesh has seen the Cavalcante’s ballroom hundreds of times before, Saber’s fresh eyes are transfixed by the elegance before them. And how could they not? The crystal chandeliers glittering like stars, the gold leonine decals on the walls, the ceiling painted with a rosy-cheeked procession of angels in the clouds—it’s some of the finest a Venetian noble has to offer. (Which is why he agreed to come here; it’s a ball worthy of them.)

“There are more people here than at the other noble’s,” Saber notes, looking almost wary.

“Which is in our favor. Word will spread further of our marriage to come, and thus distract the Fianna.” Gilgamesh catches sight of the conductor, straight-backed and wig well-powdered. “Ah, and there is just the mongrel we were searching for! Let’s be off.”

Arm in arm, they go to meet the conductor. Once he learns of the hosts’ consent, he’s eager to provide the proper accompaniment for the _walzer_ to come. “I must ask, however…do you mean the dance from Germany, or Austria? There are some slight differences in tempo, you see.”

Saber’s eyes widen. “My teacher might have come from Austria—I never had the chance to ask.” There’s a pause as he inclines his body in a bow, only for it to mercifully transform into a curtsy. “Forgive me.”

“Oh, forgive _me_ , Signora,” the conductor reassures him, looking a bit embarrassed himself. “I did not mean to trouble you. If I may say so, I’m sure the Signore and Signora will look lovely this evening!”

“Of course,” Gilgamesh replies with a slight nod of acceptance, while Saber dips a humble curtsy in response. “Your efforts shall be rewarded!”

But before everything can begin, the hostess must make her dull speech while the orchestra tunes their instruments. “Good evening, everyone! It is wonderful to see your faces once again. Tonight’s entertainment shall be the minuets we’re all so fond of…and something special…”

Gilgamesh listens with half an ear (if that), a neutral smile fixed on his face as he bows to polite applause when necessary. His _full_ attentions are focused on Saber patiently taking in every word, and Diarmuid’s shadow circling the ballroom as he performs reconnaissance. _Will our bodyguard hold to his promise, I wonder? Doubtful._

His thought is interrupted by the sudden swell of music notes like an intake of breath. The ball has begun.

“Shall we dance now, or save our strength?” Saber asks, as waves of couples roll to the center of the room.

“The latter,” he replies, and they leave the conductor to his work.

“Why?”

“Because, my sweet Genevieve, anticipation is important.”

Despite not appearing to understand, Saber nods and looks up at him with a smile meant to be adoring; he looks vaguely ill instead. “And we have time to ‘practice’ this way.”

“Indeed!” Gilgamesh laughs and guides him through the sweaty crush of mongrels toward a smaller room, where a large dining table stands draped in a white cloth and glistening with refreshments—where people are bound to take notice of them. “What of this selection intrigues you?”

Saber’s eyes roam the silver tableware hungrily, inches from licking his chops. “The sweetmeats…no, the candied nuts…no, the little cakes…oh, there are chocolates?!” He opens his fan and flutters it before his face. “There’s simply too much!”

“And that is another of Carnivale’s many joys.” Gilgamesh gestures for a finely-dressed servant to fill a plate with one of each delicacy before bequeathing it to its rightful owner. “Hmm. You require a drink…and we have quite a selection here as well. Wine, brandy, champagne…”

Saber’s eyes flick about, his fan still fluttering. “Which has less…potency?”

“The champagne, Signora.” The servant smiles knowingly. “It should pair well with your food…in small amounts, of course.”

“I’ll have it,” Saber says. Then, softer, “in a very small glass, if you please.”

Chuckling, Gilgamesh lets the servant pour the (very small) glass to the brim with golden, sparkling champagne. “I hope you find it to your liking, dear Genevieve.” He quirks a brow. “Hmm. I shall hold your refreshments for you; your hands will be quite full otherwise!”

“And allow you to steal my food? What nonsense!” Scowling, Saber holds the silver plate close to his chest like a lion guarding a fresh kill. “I assure you, I can manage this myself.”

Gilgamesh holds out a hand. “What of your fan?”

It snaps shut with an annoyed flick of the wrist. “Then you will find me a table… _dearest._ ”

As they turn away (Gilgamesh holding the very small glass), the servant clicks her tongue with wry amusement and mutters something about “young lovers”. Yet another success.

“Here,” Gilgamesh says, guiding Saber to a small table near the door. Rainbows of jewel-toned dresses and jackets sway before his eyes; some are in search of food, most for gossiping among themselves. “Now we may see and be seen, but not overheard by mongrels.” He pulls out a chair just in case Saber’s male etiquette rears its head again.

“…Oh, yes. Thank you.” Saber takes his seat, his skirts and petticoats puffing out charmingly around him. “You should have refreshments as well, Gilgamesh. Why not?”

“I was too charmed by your enthusiasm.” And much to his surprise, it’s the truth. “Perhaps I _will_ acquire some—”

“—There’s no need.” As if summoned like a genie from a lamp, Diarmuid places a bowl of sweetmeats and a glass of wine in front of him with a gallant smile. “I recommend these; the honey has candied the fruit quite thoroughly, but not too much.”

“How in heaven’s name did you…?” Saber pauses and glances over his shoulder. Turns back. “Oh. Of course. It’s a direct line from the windows to here—my apologies, Diarmuid.”

Diarmuid, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice anything worth apologizing over. Instead he gets to business: “The ballroom seems safe, with no Fianna sneaking in with the guests; especially now that the doors are closed.”

“And the windows?” Saber is already nibbling at a tiny cake topped with honey. “They’re quite large, and there are no locks on them.”

“They’re quite sturdy,” Diarmuid assures him. “If you wish, I can focus my patrol there.”

“Please do,” he replies, every inch the commanding young lord. Until he adds with a slight curve of the lips “But do not forget to enjoy yourself, Diarmuid. You were invited to this ball as well. And yes,” his voice is tinged with gentle amusement, “that _is_ an order.”

Diarmuid’s full lips part in surprise, as if he never expected such kindness from his employer. “But—but my Lady—”

“I concur with Genevieve. Did you not come to Venice to sample Carnivale’s pleasures? Then do so to your heart’s content _as well_ as following your role.”

Unable to argue against such orders, Diarmuid places a fist over his broad chest and bows. “It will be as you say, my L—my Signore!”

“Would you rather call us your Lord and Lady?” Gilgamesh asks, before he can dash off again. “I see no issue with it. What say you, Genevieve?”

Saber nods, his expression almost fond. “It reminds me of home.”

“…Very well.” Diarmuid’s gentle smile pairs well with the soft candlelight around them. “Thank you, my Lord, my Lady.”

Any further attempts at conversation are stalled by the hostess bustling into the room and saying “Signore Lugal, Signora Watson, it’s time!”

“Oh! Thank you very much,” Saber says, wiping his hands on a silk napkin (helpfully offered by Diarmuid) and rising to his feet in a rustle of skirts. “We will be there shortly.” But not before having a sip of champagne. “Goodness,” he splutters. “It tickles my nose!”

“It takes some adjusting to, yes,” Gilgamesh admits with amusement. “Fortunately, we can always return for more later.”

Diarmuid casually takes drink and plate in hand. “I can watch over your food and yourselves.” His sure smile could give anyone a swell of confidence. “I look forward to seeing your hard-won efforts pay off!”

Gilgamesh smiles back and ushers Saber into the empty center of the ballroom, where the mongrels await them in an eager hum of low conversation. The conductor is already before his orchestra, waiting patiently as sheet music gets shuffled about. _Finally._ _Now all we must do is begin our dance…!_

He and Saber take a few stately steps back before bowing and curtsying respectively, as etiquette dictates. Then—as they practiced—Gilgamesh holds out his hand just as the music begins its slow, steady build. _Ah-ha, so they_ did _have a melody available on such short notice!_

It’s likely that their audience has already noticed a slight difference in the usual introduction to a dance, but they haven’t fully comprehended yet.

Once Saber glides his hand in Gilgamesh’s and Gilgamesh pulls him in chest-to-chest, the room erupts in a unified gasp of shock. And why wouldn’t it? Their flesh is pressed together from their laced fingers to their elbows to Gilgamesh’s hand on Saber’s back, close enough to feel his heartbeat thrumming beneath silk and corset. Beautiful lashes gleam gold as the décor in the soft candlelight.

The violins’ song bends and sways like reeds around them, and they take their first steps together.

“Remember,” Saber says, his voice almost a whisper, “ _one_ -two-three, _one_ -two-three.”

“And _you_ must remember to look on me with adoration,” Gilgamesh whispers back, allowing affection to warm his voice for the first time in years.

Saber’s cheeks flush a crimson strong as red wine. Even so, he lifts his chin and gazes at Gilgamesh with…well, it’s a start.

They float gracefully about the floor ( _one_ -two-three, etc.), their steps as in-tune as the orchestra guiding them. It’s a beautiful swaying, swelling melody befitting a dreamlike night such as this.

“Is my expression…adoring enough?”

“It has potential.” The flutes pipe sweetly as he gives Saber a slight dip, allowing them a glance at the stock-still crowd.

Saber rolls his eyes as Gilgamesh pulls him upright again. “Humph. I see you’re a difficult man to please.”

“Quite so.” He gives Saber’s hand a comforting squeeze. “You must understand, I have a reputation to maintain.”

Saber’s skirts brush his stockings temptingly. “What about you—d-dear? A bridegroom must love his bride as well.”

“Oh?” He lowers his lashes a fraction, his vision of Saber encased in a warm haze. “Are you certain you can withstand the full force of my affections? Very well.”

His partner doesn’t answer at first—he’s too occupied with attempting adoration. However…a few more leisurely turns about the floor, and he begins having trouble meeting his gaze. Not enough to appear frightened, but slightly flustered without a doubt.

“Strange. I never took into account how many eyes would be on us.”

“Does that unnerve you? If so, we can—”

“—No, not at all. It’s merely strange.”

“…I see. ‘Strange’, indeed.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Diarmuid weaving his way through the crowd of mongrels, looking not unlike a wolf on the hunt. His eyes are firmly fixed on them, unwavering and enchanted. _Delicious._

“What did you mean by ‘the full force of your affections’?” Saber asks, after they perform another flawless dip.

“Oh, it’s quite simple.” Gilgamesh adjusts his grip on Saber’s hand, admiring the delicate callouses. “There are many mongrels staring at us tonight. No doubt they yearn to be blessed enough to replace me. Indeed…” They spin about, Saber’s dress fluttering in the slight breeze. “…Some may even be so bold as to ask you to dance.”

“Which you would never allow,” Saber interjects dryly.

“On the contrary. A dance or two would do no harm at all.”

Saber blinks up at him. “And why not?”

“Because…” Gilgamesh forgoes decorum for a moment, bowing his head slightly to whisper in Saber’s ear. “…However graceful their movements, or how sweet their words, they will _never_ compare to how you felt in my arms in this moment.”

Alas, his partner is made of stern stuff. “Is that so? I beg to differ; Diarmuid may equal you in grace and decorum.”

“You may have a point…he certainly has a wolfish elegance to him. Very well, Diarmuid may dance with y—”

_CRASH._

Horrified screams as loud as the shattered glass fill the ballroom—along with an assortment of those acursed mongrels in black. They arrived as one, feet-first and disappointingly unharmed. A quick glance shows ropes trailing behind them from the broken windows. They must have swung in with rappelling hooks from the opposite _palazzos_ ; a large three-pronged hook _clangs_ to the floor.

“I loathe being right,” Saber snarls as Gilgamesh instinctively steps in front of him.

Diarmuid is adrift in the stormy sea of guests as they crash toward any exit they can find. “Run, my Lady! I beg you—!” His elbow smashes into an assailant’s face, downing them instantly.

Down the hall, he hears more screaming. And worse yet: footsteps, coming closer.

Gilgamesh is unarmed. Saber as well. All they can do is body their way through the crowd of Fianna mongrels, Diarmuid struggling to meet him from the opposite side.

In the midst of the chaos, a bald mongrel thrice Diarmuid’s size shoulders through the great double-doors, raking the room with his greedy gaze. “Don’t bother resisting,” he rumbles, his voice like a landslide crushing through the clamor around him. “With Conan Mac Maol here, you have nowhere to run!”

“I’m afraid we must disappoint you, Sir,” Saber says, standing straight-backed and proud.

“Indeed.” Gilgamesh points an accusatory finger at the mountainous man before them. “You dared to interrupt our dance—and for that, you will pay the price in full, twice over!”


	5. Which Is An Interlude Concerning Vortigern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came about because the alternative was to have Saber and Conan Mac Maol shout exposition at each other while Gil and Diarmuid nod along. I figured I may as well do the tried-and-true Swashbuckler Thing and have a brief look at what our villain is up to. Much less silly! XD
> 
> Also, since I signed up for Iddy Iddy Bang Bang again this year, and the fic is to be submitted in mid-September, I'll need to go on a brief hiatus and work on that in the meantime. ^^; The good news for On Chivalry's Blade: it'll give me more time to write these chapters in advance! I think it'll work out quite well. Thanks for your patience!

Vortigern Pendragon glares down from the throne he forcefully acquired from his brother Uther at the court advisor he acquired with far less force. The infernal man practically launched himself at Vortigern’s feet once the coup was over. Of course, Vortigern soon learned that act of cowardice was to buy time for his niece Arturia to escape—and for that, Merlin was dragged to the Tower of London, only brought to Kensington Palace when the Fianna needed more information on Arturia’s potential whereabouts.

Which, infuriatingly, is often.

Yet even while wearing rags and bound in chains, Merlin glares cheerily back at him from the red-carpeted dais with one unblinking violet eye. The other is blackened and swollen shut. A pittance, compared to the trouble he's caused.

“Good morning, Vortigern,” Merlin says, granting him only the slightest nod of his snowy-white head. “I will not kneel for you today, either.”

“Your pupil has yet to be found,” Vortigern rumbles, adjusting his barrel-thick legs yet again. The throne is far too small for him, so he ordered the largest chair in the palace. Even this high-backed monstrosity is lacking. “I know you and Kay smuggled her out, even though she is the last in line for the throne. Why?”

Merlin grins wryly, the sight of his missing teeth only heightened by the bare minimum of sunlight filtering in through the high windows. “You beheaded her father in a coup. Why on _earth_ would I let you do the same to Arturia?”

Vortigern leans forward, his jet-black armor scraping like bone on bone as he does so. “Because I have _other_ uses for her.”

Merlin tilts his head to one side, his white hair that turned far too early falling over his shoulders. “‘Other uses’, you say?”

“Quite so, you chattering bird.” Vortigern laces his callous-hardened fingers together. “Our coppers run empty, and our people hunger for riches. Even the South Sea Company can barely keep the crown’s debt afloat. Uther may have had the right idea, endorsing such a venture alongside the East India Trading Company…but even so, our country’s neck is exposed and ripe for the cutting. Much as I loathe it, we need allies _._ Not just the Orkneys on Morgan’s side, allies _out of Britain_. And letting that woman remain unmarried won’t aid in that.”

Merlin’s lips twist. “…Ah. I’m even gladder that I helped Arturia escape now. Even if you picked the perfect match for her, she’d most likely run off!”

“And whose fault is _that_? You and Uther let her flounce about for years on end!” 

“She knows matters of state as well as Kay or Morgan,” Merlin says, his chains clinking as he straightens up proudly. “She’s taught young Gawain and Gareth more than even I have. And months later—in the dead of winter—the greatest mercenaries in Ireland haven’t found her.” His eyes narrow, suddenly far more intense than before. “ _Those_ are the results that ‘flouncing’ produced. I will _not_ let you spit on my finest pupil while I’m still breathing!”

Vortigern snorts, shaking his shaggy grey head. “Do remember that the only reason you _are_ still breathing is because—only God knows how—you perform your role impeccably.” He peers down at him. “Is it some sort of divine gift, I wonder?”

Merlin laughs softly. “There are no miracles in this world. As far as I’m concerned, my ‘role’ is to make sure Arturia isn’t miserable. That’s all.” Church bells toll outside, and his slight shoulders begin to tense. “Speaking of which, is there a headsman awaiting me outside? The cells are quite chilly and damp, you know, and the gruel is dull as death, but I’m sure I can endure them for a few more weeks!”

“That depends. Where did you send Arturia, Merlin?”

“I let her choose!” His smile is so obnoxiously brilliant (even with missing teeth) that he can only be telling the truth.

Vortigern signals for the guards at the doors to take Merlin away, ordering “Quarter rations for the next two weeks. We shall see what your answer is then!”

Of course, they both know that Merlin is the only one who could make Arturia see reason regarding marriage. Until she is found and wedded, the court advisor has to endure the Tower of London for more than two weeks.

“Such nonsense…” Vortigern tips back his head and sighs from deep in his barrel chest, staring up at the dais' red velvet curtains. _How long will Fionn restrain himself until he hunts for his bride-to-be on his own? I suppose I must send him another letter with half-truths._

Regardless, one thing is certain: Britain _will_ have the allies it needs, even if he must forge a wild-hearted princess into a manageable bride to do so. Surely Arturia will understand in time. This is all for their people. 


	6. In Which A Palazzo Is Ruined and Unexpected News Is Received

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We should be back to an every-two-weeks schedule now, thank you for your patience! (Which is to say, the next chapter will be out in two weeks, barring IRL things or needing more time.)
> 
> EDIT 12/12/20: And lo, I do indeed require more time for this chapter. ^^; (Which is infinitely better than posting something I'm not confident in.) It's a matter of figuring out whether this next chapter needs a different POV or not. So if nothing else, it'll be a fun challenge, and worth the wait!

_Let’s see…_ Diarmuid surveys their opponents with a glance. _There are only thirteen Fianna here in all. Mac Maol arrived on his own, but the other twelve came in threes. They_ might _be the only ones arriving, but..._

“Our odds seem uncertain,” he says under his breath.

“Then set them aside for now,” Gilgamesh says with unwavering confidence.

“My Lady, what do you—?” Diarmuid turns to find Saber gone. _Damn it, where is he_ now _?!_ He can just see a little blond cowlick ducking into the refreshment room. _Oh, for heaven’s sake!_

Gilgamesh’s knee slams between a Fianna member’s legs; he steps over the falling body without looking down. “Genevieve, this is no time for dessert!”

“I _know_ that,” Saber snarls, his voice somehow carrying through the din. He storms back into the ballroom in a most unladylike fashion, his skirts billowing wildly. “Damn it, I thought there were swords hanging on the wall!”

“In Britain, perhaps,” Diarmuid calls, his fist crashing into an enemy’s nose. “It seems our host has different ideas of décor!”

Two Fianna race toward Gilgamesh, eager to corner him with knives raised—only to slam into each other instead, thanks to his well-timed step back. _Ah, that old trick._ But a good one: they’re too disoriented to feel him grabbing them by the collars.

“Catch, mongrels!” And he tosses them like nine-pins into their brothers, bowling them over. Some of them even rattle the walls with their bulk. 

A dagger thrusts at Diarmuid’s side in a burst of air. He whirls around and snatches the opponent’s wrist, bending it back further and further. Bone _creaks_ ominously under his hand.

“Oh, God, no,” the backstabber wails, gawking at him with terrified brown eyes. He’s seen them before, a year ago in a fresh batch of recruits. “Vice-Captain, please!”

This is probably his first mission. After all, Diarmuid was never able to finish training him.

“I’m not your Vice-Captain anymore,” Diarmuid growls—and lets him go anyway.

The young man staggers away, clutching his arm splotched with bruises protectively. His eyes glow bright with awe. “Vice-Captain, tha—”

—A thin spray of blood.

The point of a sword, drenched crimson, sprouts from the young man’s chest.

“Didn’t you hear him, weakling?” Conan Mac Maol sneers, cruelly wrenching his sword free and letting the young man’s corpse collapse face-first to the floor. “He isn’t our Vice-Captain anymore.”

The ballroom is silent. Not even the Fianna are moving now.

“‘Conan Mac Maol’, was it?” Saber’s quiet voice rasps through the silence like a sword pulled from a scabbard.

Mac Maol puffs out his chest with baseless pride. “My reputation finally precedes me!”

“No, your _cowardice_ precedes you…but even so, I underestimated how low you would stoop.” Saber’s eyes are hidden by his hair, but Diarmuid can sense the rage flowing from him.

“And what will you do about it, _girl_? Face me bare-handed?”

“No,” Saber snarls, and ducks past Mac Maol to race for the entryway.

On instinct, Gilgamesh and Diarmuid run after him as the Fianna surge forward to give chase. They squeeze through just in time as the black-clad crowd tries to force their way out like a clot of shadows spilling onto the floor.

“What is he planning?” Gilgamesh pants, as Saber stops before the rows of suits of armor and rips a sword free from its scabbard.

“Something clever,” Diarmuid replies, and takes a sword himself. He’ll have to make do with one tonight. “Hurry, my Lord, arm yourself!”

Rather than take up arms as he should, Gilgamesh sets to knocking over each row of armor with an abrasive _clang-clang-clunk_ , turning the hall into a mess of heaping metal. “As it _is_ a clever idea, I shall add to it.”

“Will you pretend to be a ghost again?” Saber snaps. “We have no time for that!”

Gilgamesh adjusts his cuffs agitatedly. “I assure you, I have—”

“— _There they are_!”

Mac Maol storms forward, his sword raised. His men are behind him, warier. From the hot breath streaming from Mac Maol’s nose and mouth like a bull ready to charge, they could be ready to flee _him_ rather than their opponents. (Diarmuid wouldn’t blame them for the former.)

“Come on!” Saber shouts, and Diarmuid follows behind Gilgamesh as they rush further down the hall. Suits _crash_ like felled iron trees to the floor—whether they’re deterring the Fianna or not is hard to say.

“This will do!” Diarmuid’s shoes _squeak_ against the smooth marble floor as he spins around to face Mac Maol. “My Lord, my Lady, escape while you can.”

“Oh, no, no,” Gilgamesh says smoothly, shedding his dark blue coat in a dramatic flourish and letting it fall into Diarmuid’s arms. “ _I_ still mean to have my revenge.”

“With what, little lord?” Mac Maol jeers. “Your bare hands?”

“Only if you do the same, mongrel.” Gilgamesh rolls up his sleeves with brisk, efficient twitches of his fingers. “My bride is a stickler for fair play, as you can see.”

“Well, _I_ have to send your bride home, so fair play can wait.” That’s all the warning Mac Maol gives before he lunges for Gilgamesh’s throat.

Gilgamesh rocks back on his heels, angles his arm, and—

_SHH—THUNK._

Mac Maol lets out a loathsome howl, and blood spatters to the floor. The slender handle of a knife is sticking through the palm of his hand like a grotesque badge of honor. “You…!”

“ _You_ have no right to complain,” Gilgamesh says, and does so himself: “What a pity. I thought only one knife would be required for this evening, but you require a drawerful!”

Seething, Mac Maol wrenches the knife from his palm and tosses it aside with a clatter.

“At least hand it back,” Gilgamesh complains, snatching it up before it hits the floor.

Saber makes an expert lunge, leaping between Gilgamesh and Mac Maol. A resounding _clang_ fills the air; steel against steel. Even with his cumbersome skirts flowing about his ankles, he leaps back and forth as nimbly as a lion crossing a river.

Rather than get in Saber’s way, Diarmuid joins Gilgamesh in holding back the other Fianna. Lunging and stabbing at any who dare get too close, they become a whirlwind of steel determined to hold their ground.

“Diarmuid, change with me!” Saber growls, and a heartbeat later Diarmuid faces Mac Maol once more.

Saber gave the Fianna’s largest member damage to spare: Mac Maol is bleeding from his arms and chest, though with no substantial wounds as yet. _I will change that._ He raises his borrowed sword with pride; behind him, Gilgamesh and Saber are knocking the foot soldiers around like practice dummies. _Time to end this._

Mac Maol opens his mouth.

“ _No_.”

“Wh—”

Diarmuid springs forward, stealing Mac Maol’s breath and life with a whisper of steel.

It’s truly a pity. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed being able to match wits and swords with an old brother in arms. But if his Lords’ lives are on the line…he must cast those feelings aside as best he can.

And so Mac Maol thuds to his knees just as Diarmuid wrenches the sword from his neck.

It’s proper manners to clean a borrowed blade with as much care as if you owned it, so Diarmuid diligently wipes off the blood with a handkerchief as Gilgamesh and Saber take care of the last remnants of Mac Maol’s cohort. A quick glance over his shoulder finds most of the soldiers fleeing, rather than standing their ground. _Of course a coward would only have cowards for allies…pitiful. At least they’re bringing their slain with them, as they should._ That gives him a glimmer of hope for the Fianna he left behind.

He surveys the damage to the hallway and despairs. The elegant, tiled floor is scuffed and bloodied, and some gorgeous portraits have tumbled out of their frames, or broken entirely. _Our hosts will throw us out in moments!_

“Oh,” Gilgamesh says, “perhaps we should put one of these mongrels to the question?”

“There’s no need! My— _the_ Fianna swear an oath to never betray their leader under pain of death.”

“…I see.” Saber cleans his borrowed sword as well and strolls back through the wreckage to return it. Much to Diarmuid’s surprise, he actually remembered the armor the blade came from, and sheaths it with reverence. Then he pauses and looks to Gilgamesh and Diarmuid quizzically. “…There is something I must do. But what?”

A long, awkward silence.

Gilgamesh suggests “In perilous circumstances like this one, ladies often fall into a swoon.”

Saber’s lips curl into a relieved smile. “Ah, yes, that was it. Thank you. If you’ll excuse me?” And he rests the back of his hand to his forehead, his body dipping sideways to the floor.

“Let us catch you first!” Heart racing, Diarmuid leaps over the disarray to Saber’s side, with Gilgamesh ready to overtake him.

Saber pauses mid-swoon, straightening up with liquid ease. He even goes so far as to clasp his hands and rest them at his belly, the picture of demure patience. Despite that, there’s a slight tremble in his slippers. “Would the bodyguard or fiancé be more authentic?”

“The fiancé, my Lady,” Diarmuid says, drawing up short.

“The fia—oh.” Gilgamesh side-steps him, prancing like a show pony to Saber’s side. “I see we are in agreement! Good, very good. Now…” He holds out his arms invitingly. “…Fall into my arms, Saber!”

“Quite so.”

Saber puts the back of his hand to his forehead once more, and collapses into Gilgamesh’s waiting arms with all the formality and gentleness of a brick wall being struck by a hammer. The young lord was holding himself upright by sheer force of will.

Gilgamesh and Diarmuid’s shocked gasps echo through the hall.

That sound—relatively quiet compared to the hubbub before—summons the hosts and the other guests, along with a maelstrom of questions:

“Signore Lugal, are you well?”

“Signora Watson has fallen into a swoon! Who has smelling salts?”

“Who _were_ those ruffians?”

“Heavens! Did your bodyguard best them all?”

Diarmuid lets Gilgamesh field those questions. For now, he returns his sword to the proper suit of armor and waits for a servant to bring smelling salts. When one does arrive, he carefully waves the pungent odors under Saber’s nose. _Strange…nothing is happening. Is Saber truly unconscious?_

“We must apologize for the state of your _palazzo_ ,” Gilgamesh says, sounding sincere enough to pass muster, “but I fear we must be off. As you can see”—he adjusts the gossamer burden in his arms—“my bride-to-be is weary.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” says Signora Cavalcante, tenderly brushing a stray hair from Saber’s cheek.

Saber’s eyes flutter open. “Wa…?” For a moment, the haze passes from them like clouds over the moon. “Oh, it’s you, Signora Cavalcante. My apologies…I fear when those ruffians appeared, I…”

“Oh, don’t fret about that, my dear!” the good Signora clucks. “It’s quite understandable. Well, setting aside that horrible business, we simply _must_ invite you again!”

“Oh, yes,” Signore Cavalcante says with a laugh. “Our evenings are rarely this exciting!”

“Truly?” Diarmuid says before he can stop himself.

“Pardon our bodyguard, it’s been a troubling night for him,” Gilgamesh steps in, flicking a warning glare his way before resuming his charming mien. “We would _love_ to visit your beautiful home again at a later date. For now, farewell!”

And they bustle out the door and onto the nearest gondola, returning to the Lugal residence.

They ride in silence, save for the gondolier’s oars slapping through the water. Saber is still cradled in Gilgamesh’s arms, his eyes closed once again. In the moonlight, he looks like a noblewoman’s ghost, drowned in the depths of a lake.

Diarmuid knits his brows. “When… _she_ …awoke just now, she began to say something. The beginning of a name?”

“Perhaps,” Gilgamesh says with deceptive casualness. “Or perhaps it was nothing to concern us.”

“But—” Diarmuid stops, sighing at his reprimanding glare. “Oh, alright. It was nothing.”

The silence resumes, with the two of them peering into the lamplit dark for any sign of black cloaked Fianna on their trail.

“Have you heard of the strange goings-on in Britain?” the gondolier asks, apparently desperate for conversation.

“No,” Gilgamesh says, curious. “Enlighten us.”

“Well, they say that Britain’s throne is held by some uncle of the king’s, and the true heir is on the run. Skulking in the shadows, he is, planning to take back his throne with an army of wizards and fairies!”

“The wizards might be suspect,” Diarmuid steps in before Gilgamesh can doom them all, “but the Fair Folk are _not_ to be trifled with. Even in jest.”

“Yes. Well.” The gondolier shifts in his seat nervously—perhaps Diarmuid’s eyes beneath his mask held more fire than he knew. “Even so, the prince being alive is something to celebrate! There _are_ some rumors saying otherwise…but it’s Carnivale. This is a time for blessings and good news!”

Saber lies very, very still in Gilgamesh’s arms.

“That’s true,” Gilgamesh says, brushing stray strands of hair from Saber’s forehead in a manner not unlike Signora Cavalcante’s earlier. “As for my fiancée, our betrothal is continuing apace. Perhaps we _will_ end the festivities with a wedding after all!”

The gondolier perks up fully at that. “What wonderful news, Signore! May you have at least one argument a year. ‘Love without a fight’—”

“—‘Will become moldy’, yes.” Gilgamesh chuckles at Diarmuid’s baffled expression. “It’s one of our local proverbs, you see.”

“…Oh!” Diarmuid laughs under his breath. “We have similar sayings in Ireland. Though not quite as straightforward!”

“Ireland, you say?” The gondolier almost stops rowing before opting to lean forward curiously instead. “Do fairies live there?”

Diarmuid happily spends the rest of the trip telling tales of the Fair Folk, all while still keeping a wary eye for any black-cloaked Fianna lurking in the fog-drenched night.

\---

“Well, it seems we frightened the mongrels off for now.” Gilgamesh adjusts his grip on Saber as they stroll up the stairs to the Lugal residence. “That was a spectacular blow, Diarmuid! One worthy of a drink or two.”

“I am honored.” Diarmuid ducks his head both out of humility and to avoid hitting his head on the low doorframe. “But we should see how Saber fares. Doesn’t he seem a bit paler than before?” He takes off his mask to have an unobstructed view.

“…That won’t be necessary.” Saber eyes crack open, looking bright as emeralds once again. “I needed time to rest, that’s all.”

“Thank God you recovered!” Diarmuid helps Gilgamesh set Saber back on his feet, holding his waist with purely professional care. “What happened back there?”

“I told you,” Saber grumbles, removing his mask in one brisk motion and resting one hand on his hip. “It’s rare that I face so many foes in a single evening. You should not worry so, Diarmuid.”

“That may be true, but…you didn’t say a word until we arrived here. And you seemed truly unconscious.”

Saber sighs, rubbing his temples. “I do not wish to repeat myself. Perhaps I _will_ have a small celebratory drink, Signore.”

“Oh? Very well.” After taking off his own mask, Gilgamesh strolls over to the kitchen with light steps. “I should have some strawberry cordial you could sip…”

“That sounds lovely, thank you.” Saber manages a slight smile, though taut weariness remains on his face. “You should rest as well, Diarmuid. No doubt we have a long day ahead tomorrow.”

“How do you know that, my Lord?”

“…Oh, nothing. A suspicion, nothing more.”

“I see.” Diarmuid pauses. “Saber, my apologies, but I have one more question.”

Saber looks at him with innocent eyes. “Please, speak.”

“When Gilgamesh faced Mac Maol, he said he had to send you home. He barely even blinked at you being a bride. Why?”

A shadow passes over Saber’s expression—but only for a moment. “I’m unsure. But it is good he won’t trouble us further.”

Diarmuid nods in agreement.

Any further discussion is interrupted by Gilgamesh sweeping back into the room with glasses of cordial in hand. “Really, you two needn’t loiter about the entryway. Come in and drink! The fireplace is comforting this time of night.”

They take their glasses and follow him to the living room. Diarmuid is learning to be unsurprised at Gilgamesh’s fine assortment of drinks; this strawberry cordial is _just_ pleasantly sweet enough to be addictive, and the bubbles tickle his nose and throat in a charming dance. “Thank you, Gilgamesh. This is lovely.”

Gilgamesh lifts his chin in proud acknowledgement. “Your taste is better than I hoped!” He takes a seat by the hearth, crossing his legs with thoughtless elegance, the ankle in front bouncing lazily. “There is much to consider. Namely, that those mongrels managed to track us to our location with more ease than even Diarmuid expected…”

“But we _did_ expect them,” Saber says, taking a small sip of his cordial. On seeming to realize Diarmuid won’t sit until he does, he gets comfortable on the opposite sofa. “And no doubt word is spreading of our engagement.”

Diarmuid yawns and pulls up a straight-backed chair of his own. “Yes, but that’s meant to _distract them_ , not act as a guidepost.”

Saber frowns into his cup. “Too true. Fortunately, Mac Maol’s death should deter them from such bold attacks. In case they _do_ attempt another, we need a means of leaving Venice—”

“— _No_ ,” Gilgamesh rasps, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

“…Why is that, my Lord?” Diarmuid asks, deciding it’s best to be polite.

Gilgamesh glowers at the hearth fire, the fluttering flames turning his eyes a stark, bloody crimson. For long moments, he doesn’t speak.

“When I left Britain,” Saber speaks up, a note of hesitation in his voice, “I had only ever traveled with my brothers, or our teacher. And there was always the certainty I would return home. But this time…” He bites his lip, looking very small in that imposing chair surrounded by shadows. “…This time, I knew I would leave behind everyone I loved. It was no longer my home—not as I remember it.”

Gilgamesh’s fingers twitch around his cup. “…Ah. Yes, perhaps I fear that as well.” There’s a suspicious lightness to his words.

“In that case,” Saber says gently, “you needn’t follow me. You can stay here in the home you’ve always known—I won’t steal that luxury.”

Diarmuid considers saying something but decides against it. He’d only be repeating Saber’s words.

Gilgamesh gives a wry chuckle. “How very kind of you! I shall keep it under consideration.” He settles back in the sofa, eyes half-lidded as if he’s seconds away from falling asleep. “Until fate forces my hand…I shall remain your charming fiancé.”

Saber inclines his head solemnly. “I shall hold you to that. Good night…” With a yawn, he finishes his cordial and rises to his feet, shuffling off to bed.

“I should rest as well,” Diarmuid says, unsurprised that Gilgamesh has yet to move. “Good night, my Lord.”

“Mm. Pleasant dreams.”

Diarmuid turns to leave, but before he does—

“—Incidentally, Saber’s going to sneak outside as soon as you fall into slumber.”

Diarmuid pauses, and peers over his shoulder at him. “…You can’t be serious, my Lord.”

“Heh. Alas for you, I am.”

“How do you know he’ll do that?”

“Because he heard that gondolier’s rumor. And he’s foolish enough to charter passage for England to help his prince as soon as possible.”

“Understandably.” Diarmuid faces forward again, peering into the shadows. “Do you intend to stop him?”

“Do _you_?”

“That depends on if your suspicions are correct.”

Diarmuid leaves the lord of the _palazzo_ to his waiting, and whatever he might see among the flames.

Before heading to bed, he decides to knock on Saber’s door. “My La—Lord, do you need assistance?”

A long, sleepy pause. Then: “Yes, please.”

Diarmuid slips inside, leaving the door ajar more to reassure Saber than for any practical purpose.

Saber sits perched on the edge of the bed, his trembling fingers fumbling over his white leather slippers. The lamp on the bedside table casts sharp shadows over his face, making him look even more ethereal than before. It seems the cordial was more effective than expected. Or he’s merely exhausted.

“Please help me remove these,” he says, his voice muffled and slurred yet still understandable.

“Of course.” Diarmuid strides over and kneels down before him, the plush carpet tickling his knees. “If you would give me your foot, my Lord…”

Saber does so, the movement slow and hesitant as a deer approaching a brook bursting at the sides with snowmelt. And yet he barely reacts when Diarmuid takes his ankle in hand and feels about for the shoe’s clasps.

Once Diarmuid’s fingers brush chilly gold, he decides to ask “Did you hear what the gondolier said before?”

Saber frowns down at him, his vision unfocused with weariness. “Parts of it, yes.”

“Did you intend to question him about it?”

A huge, jaw-cracking yawn. “…Were I not so weary, and he not canals away by now.”

“Heh. So Gilgamesh and I were both incorrect, I see.”

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing.”

There’s a pause as Diarmuid unbuckles the clasp of Saber’s slipper and gently eases it free, Saber’s toes barely brushing the mouth as they pass through. Beneath the white linen stocking, the arch of his foot is visible, its construction far more delicate than expected. As is his warm pulse, beating slowly beneath Diarmuid’s fingers.

“Diarmuid…?” A sleepy murmur.

“A-Apologies!” Ears burning, he hastily sets Saber’s foot down and moves on to the other shoe.

Saber is silent for a long moment before speaking. “It’s strange. I never thought I would be married, in service of a ploy nor genuinely.”

Diarmuid looks up at him, already freeing his foot from the shoe. “Ah, so you planned to be eternally unwed?” He chuckles. “A worthy goal.”

“…Is that true?” Saber looks at him as if he’s holding out something precious. “Even as the third son, I must be prepared…in case my brothers pass.”

“You can still be prepared for that and remain as you are,” Diarmuid assures him. “In fact, my first Lord—” He bites off the sentence before he can finish it, disgusted with himself for once again returning to the past. “—well, there are others who feel the same as you.”

He gets the impression that isn’t Saber’s _sole_ reason for being so wary of marriage. Whatever the reason, no doubt Saber will voice it when he feels comfortable doing so.

Saber’s head bobs drowsily, and without being told Diarmuid knows it’s time to leave.

“Pleasant dreams, my Lord,” he says softly, rising to his feet and creeping out the door, closing it behind him without a sound.

From behind the steadfast wood, he hears the faint sounds of a bodice being unlaced, and a gentle sigh of relief. He leaves before he can intrude any further.

“Well, what is the verdict?” Gilgamesh whispers in his ear, sending his heart slamming into his chest in shock.

“It’s fine, fine!” Diarmuid whispers back, still keenly aware of the lingering warmth of Gilgamesh’s breath on his skin. He forces his heartbeat to slow. “We can rest easy, my Lord.”

“Can we?” Gilgamesh yawns behind his hand. “We shall see, I suppose. The nights will be cold yet before spring finally arrives.”

With that, he sways off to his chambers, leaving Diarmuid awash in mixed feelings. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is appreciated. :D


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